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“Whatever you’re about to say,” Mom says airily, “I don’t care.” She nudges me away from the counter so she can get to the first-floor liquor cabinet (one of three in the house) and pops it open to secure two shot glasses, plus a bottle of the cheapest vodka she can stomach buying. She pours both glasses tall enough they splash.

She places them in front of me and says, “You’re a cunt when you’re sober.”

I know the drill. A request to temporarily lobotomize myself for her benefit, because I’m only tolerable with a certain blood alcohol content.

But, as I unfortunately discovered freshman year, alcohol can nip a meltdown in the bud. And this is an afternoon I have to get through without biting through my tongue, or panicking over the podcast, or remembering the blood smearing Felicity’s neck like some dead girl on the floor of Dad’s penthouse condo.

I eye the shot glasses. “Promise they won’t put me on camera with Dad.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to negotiate,” Mom says.

The only problem is, at this moment, I am. What’s more important to her—a particularly juicy scene in the documentary, or a first impression on the crew that doesn’t involve a tantrum?

The best negotiation tactic is silence. I say nothing. Mom squirms, her lip curling.

A good first impression must win out, because Mom sighs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Acceptable. I take the shots back-to-back. The sensory equivalent of downing a pair of Sharpies.

Introductions go fine once the vodka takes the tension out of my shoulders. I resent the possibility of becoming reliant—the idea of needing anything besides my own willpower to get through a situation is repulsive—but life is a lot less tiring when I’m not doing constant socioemotional calculus for every person that looks my way. The writer chatters about proposed framing devices: chronological order, or flashbacks, or whatever. I didn’t think documentaries needed writers, I say, and that gets a laugh even though I wasn’t aware I was making a joke. The assistant directs me to stand under the living room lamp, then the kitchen chandelier. She wants to get the grading of my hair just right, it’s such a unique color, is it dyed?

The producer beams when Mom finally brings me around to him. I still have no idea what his name is.

“Good to see you again,” he hums. Distantly, I wish he were ogling my chest instead of eagerly waiting to pick my brain for every horrible thing that’s ever happened to me. “I’m glad you’re here, actually—have I introduced you to my nephew-slash-protégé, Daniel? Hey, Daniel, come say hello to Morgan.”

He gestures to the cameraman, who saunters over with a cocky grin. I am summarily unimpressed. I could find a dozen of him at any beer garden or art gallery in the city: some generic white guy with a buzz cut, stubble, and rolled-up sleeves. Definitely renting a studio in the city on family money.

The moment he looks at me, he locks on like a carnivore.

“Morgan,” Daniel repeats, reaching out to shake my hand. I give it to him. “Hi. Great to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot.”

The producer claps Daniel’s shoulder and gives him a shake that I presume is meant to be friendly. “Daniel here is currently a film student, but I promise, he’s one of the best up-and-comers on the East Coast. We cajoled his academic team into letting this count as his capstone …”

I’m not listening. Mom can’t find her new phone and is opening her tablet to ping it, a horn is honking outside, and Daniel is staring at me.

If he’s doing his capstone, that means he’s a senior in college. Four years older than me, at minimum. A legal adult and then some, with a diamond stud earring in what I presume is meant to be the “straight” ear, whichever that is; an expensive watch with a frayed leather strap; a ring of keys on the belt loop, meaning that he’s the one doing the hard work.

He’s been looking for too long.

I find a demure smile and tilt my head. “Well,” I murmur as soon as the producer is done with his stupid spiel, “it sounds like we’re in great hands. Daniel, have you seen our private theater?”

Mom plucks her phone from the couch cushions as the lawyer flags her down to discuss a clause.

“I haven’t,” Daniel says.

I say, “Come on. I think you’d like it.”

In the span of five minutes in a school bathroom, Felicity Keating managed to obliterate any sense of safety I’d managed to build for myself since the trial, and this documentary is the mental equivalent of having my hand forcibly placed on a hot stove. If a single hint of the truth makes it into the final cut, I’m fucked.

I need someone in my corner now.

And Daniel seems like a great candidate.

The basement is a shrine to Dad, if you know where to look. His suits hang in neat bags in the back closet and his shiny shoes are tucked in a plastic organizer under the couch. The wicker baskets—the ones flanking the good liquor cabinet—are expertly piled with wool blankets covering his laptop and boxes of cuff links, watches, hair gel, cologne, chargers, whatever else. Like he’ll ever need them again.

The sprawling wall of DVDs and VHS tapes is also his.

Daniel whistles as he takes the last step onto the plush basement carpet. He inspects the entertainment setup, the projector and 120-inch screen and battalion of speakers, before wandering over to the shelves.